


Don't Take It Personal

by Jeepers_Creepers



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Romance, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person Limited, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeepers_Creepers/pseuds/Jeepers_Creepers
Summary: Exactly 210 years after the bombs fell the vault opened. Deacon could appreciate the irony. Now he has a new agent to break in, bright-eyed and foul-mouthed.Everyone in the 'Wealth has something to hide, but as they grow closer Deacon's lies may just cost him the one friend he's got. The only question is—between the assistant D.A. and professional liar, which one will the truth hurt more?





	1. Game Over

It had been one hell of a day. Who knew trailing after a vaultie could be so difficult?

Well, not just any vaultie, but a particular one. Freckles, red hair, scary eyes. You know—your usual 2077er. Deacon had taken the time off to check on his perch out by the vault, and with the grinding of metal and the screeching of birds: boom. The world's newest wastelander was born. Like a brahmin calf on new, shaky legs, mooing and falling over. Okay, maybe minus the mooing and falling over part.

She was easy enough to follow—the trail of blood and dead things was a sort of neon sign right to her. One that flashed and dispensed a lot of 10mm shell casings.  
  
It was just that whenever Deacon decided to take a break—maybe retie his shoelaces or nap, it was the exact moment something _awesome_ happened. The final straw was when a peaceful morning breakfast of Sugar Bombs and squirrel bits got cut short by the deafening roar of a deathclaw that almost cracked his sunglasses. By the time he had scrambled to his feet and gotten there the lizard was swiss cheese and he had cereal all over his shirt.  
  
So now he was Deacon: the Railroad's most certifiably cool undercover agent, liar extraordinaire, and full-time babysitter. Talk about a life. He crashed down into a chair, his obligatory "casual" distance with the survivor maintained.  
  
It was a relief just to be sitting still again; typically his job allowed him a lot of quiet time, but trailing the vault-dweller was certainly getting Deacon his cardio. His legs may burn now, but he would have _stellar_ calves later. Stretching out he leaned up against the counter, "T-bot, my man, hit me with the good stuff," he said.

"Na-ni shimasho-ka?"  
  
Deacon cracked a small smile, looking up at the Protectron. "What, no habla ingles?"  
  
"Na-ni shimasho-ka?"  
  
"Aw hell yes, Taka. You know it." It was his own sort of game with the robot, and always got him some looks from the locals, but as long as he slipped in the magic word "yes", he got noodles. The rest was gibberish to Takahashi, and that was fine by Deacon.  
  
Slurping down noodles always made him think of HQ, but with all the stress Des was under, he was glad to be out in the field. He could feel her eyes boring into him now, chills running down his arms. Wait, no, the eyes he felt on him didn't belong to Des. Pausing with a mouth full of noodles, he slowly brought his chipped bowl back down to the countertop and scoped out the scene.  
  
That late only really Taka and Percy were out, but robots never gave him those sort of heebie-jeebies. That was reserved for humans and humanoids. And deathclaws. Certainly deathclaws. But instead of teeth grinding him into little Deacon Bits, it was just a woman leaning against the metal shack of a storefront. Relaxed and yet entirely alarming. Why? _It's allll in the face._ Smooth skin—not just human smooth, but "I haven't lived soaking up rads in a post-apocalyptic wasteland my whole life" smooth. Hawkish eyes undulled by chems, a proper stance held only by Brotherhood of Steel or corpses.  
  
_Just a good ol' drifter, nothing to see here..._ he thought, returning to his noodles with a fidget of his glasses. Deacon figured she had gone off to have another of her long talks with Valentine, but for some reason the wanderer was on the move again. He was starting to wonder if she had something against him having any time to read Proust. Still, if she turned out to be the Railroad's newest agent....well, that was enough to convince him it was worth it.  
  
The stamping out of a cigarette and footsteps going past him told Deacon he was out of the hot seat, but he still avoided looking directly at her. _She's a suspicious one,_ he thought, _guess I should be more careful._ Truthfully, though, Deacon knew he wasn't going to. Just thinking of the time he had convinced three Brotherhood of Steel Knights that he couldn't speak English made him smile into his soup. He had to have a _little_ fun now and again.  
  
Draining the last of the bowl in one go he hopped up, jogging after the direction the wanderer went. Turning the corner he was met with a 10mm against his gut. A quick way to turn a good day into a bad one, but at least he was in on the action for once. Still, this was not a hill he wanted to die on. He would _definitely_ have to cross her off the prospect list after that.  
  
"Woah, woah, woah," he said innocently, feigning surprise. Daggerish gray eyes cut into him, making him nervous even with his sunglasses on. She wore her scowl like a mask, trying to show no weakness or hesitation despite the deep bruise-like bags under her eyes and the subtle shaking of her hand as she threatened him. She didn't want to be a murderer.  
  
"If you're going to try and kill me like one of these other psychopaths I'd prefer you not stalk me first," she said, gripping the front of his shirt.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, I-"  
  
"Was Diamond City Security, a drunk in the Third Rail, and a Goodneighbor drifter wearing a scarf in eighty degree weather."  
  
"Hey, my neck gets cold, okay?" Judging by the increase of pressure against his gut he guessed the wanderer didn't find that as funny as he did. "So game over, huh?"  For once Deacon was relieved to finally get to the brass tacks.  
  
He rolled his shoulders and pushed the gun away carefully. "You're pretty sharp, but let's not go getting all murder-crazy on me, tiger. I'm just a guy who has an offer to make here, no harm no foul. We all walk away."  
  
A beat of silence passed. The pistol slowly lowered, but she was still wary. "...Ever heard of something called the Railroad?"


	2. Nuclear Family

Marlene was having a rough day.

She rubbed her temples, throwing a look at her new mentor and wondering if it was too late to get partnered with Glory. “Are you about ready to go?”

Yes, _Deacon_ , the best of the best of the Railroad’s cloak and dagger exploits; a master of conning, lying, and intel...who had spent the last ten minutes acting like he had never seen a dog before.

Deacon looked up at her and casually shrugged his shoulders, pausing mid-scratch. “Okay, but who doesn't like dogs?” The German Shepherd rolled around in the dirt next to the mole rat corpses, bloody and cheerful.

“Me. I can smell you both from here.” The spy got to his feet, still hopelessly glancing between his companion and the mutt.

“But _look at those ears, Marlene!”_

She adjusted her rifle strap and looked at the dog dryly, “Yep. Those are ears, alright.”

Deacon clicked his tongue, looking like a child who was refused a toy. “Haven't you ever dreamt of frolicking through a field with man’s best friend? This is a one-time offer here.”

Marlene sighed. “You don't even know how to train a dog.” Growing up with three Doberman Pinschers had left her with a childhood of daily walks, picking up shit, and having to share a bed with something that's 85 pounds and kicks you in the middle of the night.

That wasn’t exactly what Deacon had in mind.

No, his imagination seemed to rear dangerously into Lassie or Rin-tin-tin territory—she wouldn't be talking him out of anything any time soon. She turned away from the scene, rubbing her eyes and squinting out at the remains of the road in front of them. “Whatever, you're the boss.”

“ _Sweeet._ Come on, little compadre.” He joined her back on the road and called and called and called in that baby voice, but Fido sat and stared like he had all day. _Well, compadre, I don't._

She let out a sharp whistle and and the dog ran to her, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Deacon’s new best friend stopped just short of improving his bowling average and skidded to a halt to sniff her, fur matted but undeniably happy. _Stupid_ happy.

She got some licks to the hand before he skipped off ahead of her, looking back expectantly like _he_ had been waiting on _them._ She had one last chance to get rid of it.

“We should find his owner, Deacon. Someone’s probably looking for him.”

Deacon would bend over backwards to keep his dog dream afloat, “Okay, I get what you mean, but hear me out: _how about we keep him?”_ Marlene refused to dignify that with an answer.

She still didn't like the idea any more than when he had first made moon eyes at the dog, but no one had come out of the woodwork shooting yet so it was pretty likely the owner was somewhere in all those mole rat corpses and Marlene wasn’t about to go looking. She put on her best mom voice, looking him eye to sunglasses. “Fine, I'll cut you a deal here. He gets to come with us and we look for his owner for a while. If we don't run into him, we can keep him.”

“We should hit Sanctuary, then. That's the closest town,” Deacon conceded, patting the pooch on the head. He actually sounded like he was handling it maturely. _Wow, I'm surprised. He's actually going to be okay—wait, Sanctuary?_ Marlene had to take a second so she didn't trip over herself and spill the beans. “ _Sanctuary Hills?_ That's where you want to go?”

The spy shifted his sunglasses and laughed, “Yeah, it _is_ the closest. What, you have some kind of bounty I don't know about?”

She forced a shrug, making her way past him, “No, I'm fine. Just think that place is kinda small, isn't it?” _So, great. Not only am I gonna be stuck with a dog, but we’re heading to Sanctuary Hills._

Truthfully, she hadn't seen it since she led Preston and the other settlers there ages ago, and she had plenty of reasons why. They were nice people, really, but she hated even _looking_ at the place. The Minutemen were all well and good when you're a young person with free time and no baggage, but Marlene had _no_ free time and all the baggage she was carrying was starting to make her back hurt. Or maybe that was just because she wasn't twenty any more—that answer was lost to time and a well-deserved chiropractor.

So the unusual trio trundled along, hitting Sanctuary in good time. Marlene, who had somehow taken point on this lost dog expedition—probably because Deacon was too busy hanging back and breathing in fur—knocked on the first door after the bridge. No one answered, but a head popped out of the window next door, “Why if it isn't little miss Marlene! Why come on in, Preston and I are just workin’ on some turrets for out front.”

Sturges looked silly hunkering down to fit through the small window, and Marlene felt a smile creep onto her lips. He towered over you and looked like a match for the devil right up until he opened his mouth—the man was a glorified teddy bear. She’d be lying if she said he didn't make her think of Nate.

“Ain't you a sight for sore eyes.” He hugged her as soon as they came in and he still smelled like oil and an overabundance of pomade. _Nice to know not everything changes._

Going off that house, the Minutemen had come a long way since she left. The place actually looked...good. _Wasteland_ good—it wasn't the Ritz—but they had some power and hell even a rug. A couch, table, and beds in one room put it a lot farther ahead than most.

“Nice to see you again, Marlene.” Preston greeted her, getting up from his planning to shake her hand.

As she took it, Marlene felt her lawyer kick in, “Likewise, Mr. Garvey.” She openly admired the place. “You two have certainly done a lot of great work here. It's guys like you that keep the Commonwealth running.”

A ruddy blush rose to Preston’s cheeks as she smiled, and it hurt her heart to think of how little help those guys had. Pre-war they were the type of tireless hard workers who would get medals or commendations, and now? Now they had two caps to rub together and a bloody wastelander complimenting them. _Christ._

The last Minuteman laughed, fingers nervously grazing the back of his head, “Thank you, ma’am. We…” he glanced at Sturges, “we do our best. With all the trouble out there _someone’s_ got to.”

Garvey was under a lot of pressure watching over those survivors. He laughed a lot and he meant it when he did, but he never managed to hide the unspoken words that hung over him like a storm cloud: _I’m doing my best and it's still not good enough._ Marlene hated that she knew how that felt.

“Who’s your friend here?” Sturges chimed in, as if he had just noticed her shadow.

Marlene threw a look over her shoulder, “Are you talking about the dog or the sunglasses?”

“Sunglasses.”

Deacon was nothing but static. Him not jumping to life like his usual jack in the box self was unnerving. No matter how many times her eyes grasped desperately for _something_ to read Deacon was that special, practiced kind of blank only the best of liars could muster.

“That's Deacon, then. I decided I needed someone to sing showtunes with on the road, and he was the perfect candidate.” She flashed a toothy smile and as Sturges laughed some of her irritation went with it.

“What is it exactly you two are here for, then? Haven't rethought my offer on being General, have you?” Preston didn't dare look hopeful.

“Unfortunately, no. I hate to tell you but we’re trying to find out if Old Yeller here belongs to anyone.”

They both shook their heads. “Not that I've ever seen, little lady.”

“Nope. Sorry we can't be of help.” Preston fiddled with his hat a moment, and Marlene watched his eyes fall to the floor. “Would you two like to stay for dinner? We’ve got plenty of room at the table and Marcy just harvested the tatos yesterday,” he offered, brown eyes finally meeting hers.

Marlene was opening her mouth to say no when Deacon _then_ decided it was time for him to pipe up, “Really? We’d love to. I'm _starving._ Last thing I ate was some bloatfly, and those are _really_ just empty calories, ya know?” And off he went, talking at his usual mile-a-minute pace and carrying them all along on his proverbial ride. What the hell he was thinking was a mystery to Marlene.

She followed the others down the street quietly, the pain she tried to ignore wrapping it’s hands around her throat. The best she could do was keep her eyes anywhere but her front yard. It felt like it had only been a month since she was tossing kick balls and baseballs back over the fence while Nate barbecued. Her husband was the worst cook she had ever met in her life, but their barbecues were always a hit—everyone else just brought the food.

Before she could say no she was ushered into a rusty patio chair out behind the Rosa’s house with a chain of tables forming a banquet. Everyone in Sanctuary had their own seat, and Marlene and Deacon had special chairs and a small table added down on the end just for them. It was unbridled... _hospitality_.

String lights kept the place in a warm glow even as the sun was fading, and when every space but one was filled they started passing around the stew and sides. Marlene had met the Quincy survivors in what was the worst time in both their lives, and here they were now: talking, laughing, gossiping, healing.They didn't have the same desperation in their eyes.

If it was possible, it made her feel like more of a failure. In a few months they had a home again, they had _rebuilt._ Killing Kellogg had only given her more questions and she was nowhere near the stage in her life where she could enjoy a _barbecue_ again. Her stomach lurched and she moved to stand up, dizzied and wanting to be anywhere but there. A rough wack to her chair sent her crashing back into her seat and she craned her neck to see Mama Murphy beside her in her wheelchair.

“Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to startle you there,” she drawled. “Though between you and me I think you was spooked already, huh? At least that's what the Sight says.” She wheeled in beside her and started aimlessly tearing apart a biscuit, looking at Marlene but _seeing_ nothing.

Marlene snapped out of it, asking, “Spooked?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “I remember you—how could I forget? Only problem is you can't forget, neither. Understandable.”

Marlene was a prosecutor, a mother, and a damn good pancake flipper. She had a lot of life experience under her belt—almost thirty-five years, in fact. The one thing she had never been in all those years was a believer.

All that mystic, superstitious crap was what lowlifes used to try and plead insanity and what her mother had used as an excuse for not letting her go to the school dance. It wasn’t exactly something she ever put any stock into until Mama Murphy came around. Everything she wanted to know through “the Sight” alone? Amazing. And probably a scam.

Still, how else could she explain an old woman in the middle of nowhere knowing so much? Boston post-war had a lot of questions without answers, and Marlene had already learned enough to stick with the big mysteries.

“Nice to see ya found Dogmeat, though. I've been wondering who he's shacked up with nowadays; good to know the guy's with someone who’ll care for ‘im,” Mama Murphy idly chatted, looking down to the dog Marlene hadn’t even noticed was still following her. She furrowed her brow, glancing between Mama Murphy and…’Dogmeat’.

“ _Dogmeat?_ That's his name? Is he your dog?”

The question amused Mama Murphy. “Nah, Dogmeat ain’t anyone's dog. He goes where he wants and ya can't talk him out of it. He's been doin’ this a looong time.”

 _If I didn't know any better I’d say that's code for “tough shit you're stuck with the dog”,_ Marlene thought. She held in a sigh and threw a look over to Deacon, who was innocently chatting with settlers and supposedly not paying any mind to her conversation. What bullshit.

If there was one thing she had knew about him already it was that Deacon was _always_ listening. Somehow she couldn't help but feel like he orchestrated the whole thing, though it was impossible to tell if that was just the paranoia talking.

The dead leaves rattled as a gust of wind blew through, and for a second the brisk air dragged Marlene back to those awful moments in time: beating on the glass of the cryopod and the horror of feeling herself freeze, sliding farther and farther beneath the surface of the pool and sinking like a stone. Chills ran up her arms. Every time Boston got cold those memories haunted her; she was tired of living with ghosts _._

She excused herself and slunk through the charred fences to stare at flamingos. Well, not _real_ ones. Hell, who was she kidding? They weren't even flamingos anymore. They were weird disembodied legs with some pink plastic on top, melted by the sheer heat of the nuclear blast. _They probably wouldn't even know what a flamingo is nowadays_ , she thought bitterly.

Sitting on the Rosa’s porch, the happy chatter of the dinner out back helped her imagine her house as it was so long and such a short while ago. If she closed her eyes she could see Nate working across the street, tinkering with his newest hunk of junk Cryslus in one of those atrocious hawaiian shirts and oil-stained jeans. _Riiiight_ in front of the pink flamingos.

A nice barbecue would be going in the backyard, kids playing tag and neighbors gossiping as per usual. _What else was there to do in Suburbia, after all?_ At least that was what Nate had said. He always used to tease her not all the other housewifes wanted to discuss the latest murder trial, smirking ever so slightly as he planted a kiss on her temple. Their loss, as far as she was concerned.

Marlene opened her eyes, grabbing a bottle of Nuka Cola that sat next to her and feeling more alone than she had in months. She’d trade anything for that now.

Dogmeat, taking a cue from God or simply trying to endear himself to her, took his opportunity to plop his head in her lap. A cat would have been better, but Marlene decided to cut the pup a break and ran her hand along his face. Staring at her old house made her soft, she guessed.

She _knew_ returning to Sanctuary Hills was a bad idea, and yet here she was. _A glutton for fuckin’ punishment._

“Ah, _I see what's going on here._ Too cool to party with _us,_ huh? Fine. But _I_ get the dog in the divorce. And the deathclaw.” Deacon’s joking brought a small smile to Marlene’s lips and he invited himself down next to her with a contented sigh.

“Seriously though, nice view. Dark sky, dead grass, _totally_ get why you’d pick that over the shindig out back.”

“I’m not a party person,” she explained simply.

Marlene hated lying, but her first day out of the vault had taught her nothing was more of a mark on your back than _111_ emblazoned in yellow. Besides, it didn't matter what people thought of her anymore. All that mattered was finding Shaun, and if she needed to fight every step there then so be it. _Fuck you,_ post-apocalypse.

“Okay, not a party person. _Noted._ Guess I'll have to call off your surprise party then, huh? Man, Tinker Tom was really looking forward to it, too…Wait, if one's alone, two’s company, then isn't three a party?”

Marlene followed his gaze down to Dogmeat. “Three’s actually a _crowd,_ Deacon. But it looks like we don't have much of a choice—Mama Murphy said this guy does what he wants.”

For some crazy reason Deacon didn't seem too upset by the news. Shocker. “ _Sweet_. You think we can teach him how to do tricks? _Ooh,_  I wonder if we can teach him to do that thing where you shoot them and they fall over, you know? What do you want to call him? ‘Cause I've been thinking on it, and I have it all worked out: Dog McCool. Tells you everything you need to know.”

Marlene took a sip of warm Nuka-Cola, _‘how the hell did I get here?’_ echoing in her head. She looked at the spy directly. “Deacon, I would shoot myself before I called a German Shepherd _Dog McCool_.”

He laughed, taking it rather well. “Fine, fine, that's fair.” As Deacon continued to babble about the pain in the neck that sat beside them licking itself, the gears in Marlene’s head were turning.

“...You know, don't you?” It was so easy to get overwhelmed by the emotions that came with Sanctuary and be distracted from actually _thinking_ about it all, but taking the puzzle pieces known as Deacon and fitting them together led her to such a stupidly obvious conclusion she hadn't even considered it at first. It was a test.

Deacon paused, and for a fraction of a second his smile dropped. “Know what?” he asked, laughing.

“It's why you brought us here—you did it intentionally.” It was too neat, too _convenient._  With Deacon, nothing was coincidence. He _had_ mentioned tailing her when they first met.

“What, you have the hots for Preston, too? _Man,_ that's awkward. Well I'll let you know-”

Marlene wasn't even going to let him start, “Don't bullshit me.” She was too tired for that.

Deacon shifted around, looking at anything but her. “Would you belieeeeve...Sturges?”

She took another sip of 200 year old soda, shaking her head numbly. She was right.

“Marcy?”

“Nope.”

“Her husband?”

“Nope.”

_“...Mama Murphy?”_

Deacon wasn't even _trying_. “You're supposed to be a _good_ liar, aren't you?”

He sighed, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses and stretching, “In theory.” If she didn't know better Marlene would say he almost sounded relieved.

Her eyes traced over him as he retied his shoe, asking frankly, “Figured I'd let something slip?”

He shrugged. “You see, the most important parts of being an agent are being able to hold your composure and lie your ass off. The whole operation would sink without it, you know?

“I didn't tell for the same reason you don't go blabbing it to the birds. It's always better to have a card up your sleeve. Heck, a deck if you can fit it. Think of it as a little...stress test.”

 _Stress test?_ Marlene _wanted_ to be upset—to have some sort of righteous indignance that he had never mentioned it—but something about the world turning into a post-nuclear hellhole took some element of shock value away from life. At some point the question: _“is this worse than nuclear war?”_ had to factor in, and the answer was almost always a strong, _“probably not”_.

Deacon finished his bunny ears and looked up at her expectantly. “So, this still a game you're up for?”

Marlene was a little surprised. “Isn't it a liability to take on someone who knows so little about the Commonwealth?”

Deacon grinned as he responded, “With how you talk your way around being two-hundred years too late to the party? ‘Liability’ is out of the question. I’ll fill you in on anything you need to know—between the two of us? _Look out, world._ ” He mimed a little explosion with his hands, adding his own sound effect.

He paused. “Well, granted, I still don't know if you're a natural or just _really,_ really suspicious.”

Marlene raised an eyebrow. “Aren't those one and the same?”

“Touché,” he replied, grinning. “I might make a good agent out of you yet.”

Marlene’s eyes moved to the remnants of her house as she nursed her drink and replayed the beginning of her trial run with the Railroad in her head. _Desdemona, Glory, Tinker Tom, Drummer Boy, Carrington..._ none of them had ever breathed a word about her being pre-war. No slip-ups or strange looks, just enthusiastic handshakes and rambling plans and introductions. Hell, Deacon may not have even told them.

Regardless, there was a weight lifted off her shoulders. She didn't have to make up more bullshit about who she was or where she came from—she was a goddamn popsicle from west Boston with a Juris Doctor, a sniper rifle, and a son to find. And only Valentine, the Cats, Deacon, and Mama Murphy knew it. Not to mention the ever-faithful Codsworth. She dodged that poor bot more than MacCready dodged Whitechapel Charlie.

“You have to know I'm looking for my son Shaun, then?”

Deacon fidgeted with his sunglasses again and flashed an uncomfortable smile. “Yeaaaah, about that. I _might've_ snuck into Valentine’s office after that whole ‘shooting a guy in the face’ thing.”

 _So he was following me when we found Kellogg, too. What a sneaky bastard_. Marlene doubted Nick would appreciate someone pawing all over his case files, but that was a fact she could pocket for now.

“Is there anything you _can't_ get into?” She snarked, downing the last of her soda.

“Uh yeah, you know those little special edition tubes of Fancy Lads? I can never get my hand all the way in there. I just have Glory open them for me.” _Damn it—_ despite herself, a smile creeped onto her face— _what a prick._

Yep, Deacon was a real card alright. She pulled her arm back and tossed her bottle, letting it sail over the dinky picket fence and into the ruins of her beloved front yard with indifference.

“Woah, woah! Don't just go tossing stuff in people's yards. Wasn't that like, _illegal,_ in your day?”

“It's _my_ house, 007.” She rolled her eyes, leaning against the porch’s column. “I was trying to hit a flamingo, anyway. I'm the only one who ever liked those plastic bastards.”

The silence was only momentary, broken by the one question she knew he’d ask. “...What's a flamingo?” Sometimes it hurt to be right.

 _“_ They were bird lawn decorations that smelled like burnt plastic at anything over ninety degrees. Tacky, bright pink, and relentlessly cheerful. Every kid thought he was the most unique and hilarious teenager on the planet for uprooting them from my yard and making them 69 each other.”

Ahhh, she could still see it: a flamingo in all it's feathered glory, outrageously pink and ridiculous. The un-stealthiest of birds and America’s favorite useless fowl. She loved those things—they always reminded her of Nate and his god awful Hawaiian shirts.

Deacon laughed, no doubt recreating the midnight delinquency in his mind. “I always wondered what it was like before the war... _didn't know it was quite like that._ ”

“People don't change much,” she half-smiled, “I don't know if that's the best part or the worst part.”

The white picket fence, the daily Boston Bugle, the flamingos, the happy nuclear family all loomed over her. In one day she was the only thing left _._

Digging in her pocket, Marlene pulled out her crumpled packet of cigarettes and lit one. She had earned it. “ _‘_ Nuclear _’_ family...at least I can't say the world doesn't have a sick sense of humor.” Marlene sighed, some Lovecraft quote from college coming back to taunt her: ‘ _From even the greatest horrors, irony is seldom absent._ ’

_Understatement of the last three centuries, asshole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for reading! :)
> 
> Questions? Comments? Favorite line? Thoughts on Marlene? "Oh my God Deacon 'Dog McCool"? All greatly appreciated—comments are what keeps this circus runnin'. ;)


	3. Look For A Star

 

Deacon crouched across from Marlene, his legs long past aching. His protégé had abandoned that pose as soon as she realized they’d be sitting through water cooler conversation for the next hour, and she looked decidedly more bloodthirsty than normal. Raider small talk could do that to you.  
  
The two culprits chatted at the end of the hall, armed to the teeth and reeking of alcohol. There had been a party the night before—apparently one of their vicious raiders who lived in a derelict building and injected Jet into their eyelids had killed one of those vicious raiders that lived in another derelict building and injected Jet into their eyelids.  
  
What did that mean for inter-raider politics? Hell if Deacon knew.  
  
They had been stuck listening to raider fishing stories for long enough; it was starting to mess with his head. _God_ _, is that what I sound like?_ He tried not to cringe at every word that came out of Nemo’s mouth. I mean, killing two deathclaws barehanded is one thing, but three? Way to give liars a bad name, dude.  
  
Apparently he wasn't the only one paying attention, as Marlene leaned out from behind her file cabinet to whisper in a complete deadpan, “Funny; I always figured they settled their disputes over afternoon tea and the heads on pikes came afterwards.”  
  
It was proving worthwhile to have someone else tucked beside him in the shadows—usually he had to make the smartass comments himself.  
  
“Are you telling me afternoon tea _doesn't_ involve headspikes? Oh, man, I've been doin’ it all wrong,” he replied, grinning. It earned him a clandestine laugh from Marlene.  
  
It was nice to see her start to relax once Sanctuary was in the rearview, but she was still glaring at him every time Dogmeat bounded up to a Gunner like they could be his new best friend if only they’d stop tossing grenades long enough. Yeaaaah, there was a reason his new best friend was being babysat by Drummer Boy at HQ.

Still, taste in pets aside, they were slowly building some form of trust. Not _“do these jeans make me look fat”_ or _“I'll leave you alone with the last Fancy Lad” trust, but “I’m fairly confident you won't knife me in my sleep”_ trust. That was...a lot better than it sounded.

Deacon was good at spotting when people were about to crack under pressure, and Marlene was oddly composed. None of the classic signs—y’know, rocking back and forth, crazed ranting, way too intense eye contact, stabbing the resident physician with a spork. Yeahhhh, he had seen his fair share of agent freakouts over the years...and physicians.

Comparatively? Marlene looked great. Hell, dark circles were practically agent dress code.

There was always the possibility that he just couldn't recognize it in her, though—some people were like that. Sometimes you don't catch something’s screwy until plastic tines are meeting windpipe. Like he said, he was in the “ _fairly confident_ ” and not the “ _positive_ ” range for knife-related deaths.

Everyone at HQ had their way of coping with the suffocating stress: Des smoked, Carrington yelled, Tom theorized, Drummer Boy self-medicated, and Deacon? Deacon lied. They were a _reaal_ fun bunch at parties.

But Marlene? Well, he wasn't quite sure _what_ Marlene did—not yet, anyway. He’d get there. So far it was a lot of sitting with her nose in a book, making morbid jokes, and cursing like a sailor. She’d fit in just fine.

Finally, Chatty Cathy packed it up and turned towards them, ready to hit his assigned patch of floor down the hall. Deacon straightened up behind his filing cabinet, ready to finally demonstrate a choke hold. It wasn't Nemo, but he’d take what he could get.

According to Des, he was supposed to be showing the rookie how to follow railsigns, but Des hadn't ever said he couldn't spice things up with a little sleeper hold here and there. I mean, _it was implied,_ but what Desdemona didn't know couldn't hurt.

The heavy trot of drunk footsteps died as he sprung out from his spot, dragging the raider from the hallway into the privacy of one of the offices and dropping him in seconds. Marlene stared down at the body with vague amusement, eyebrows raised. “I’m starting to regret ending my karate career at nine.”

Deacon’s mind instantly conjured up holotapes of a miniature Marlene knocking raiders upside the head and it was _awesome._

He stifled his grin and pointedly looked down at the raider, sniffling. “They always look so cute when they're sleeping.” Marlene rolled her eyes when he wiped away an imaginary tear, stepping over the unconscious chatterbox to flip him over and rummage through his pockets.

On raiders Deacon always hoped to find something to remind him they were people with families, interests, and passions other than injecting jet directly into their eyeballs. A postcard? Poem? Flute? He’d take anything, honestly. So far there had been no pet bunny rabbits or secret diaries.

All Marlene came up with was some ammo and caps but she seemed satisfied enough, handing over half of each without question.

It must have been a pre-war thing, back when people sat out in lawn chairs and waved to neighbors and drank lemonade with the little teeny umbrellas, just _giving people things_ like that. There were some nice folks in the ‘Wealth, sure—people just trying to help out and be decent—but as a rule Deacon was suspicious of anyone who gave without asking for anything in return.

He raised an eyebrow, rolling the bullets and caps around in his palm. Sure, she _seemed_ to have all the good intentions in the world, but what if she had an end here? Hell, what if she _just didn't know?_

“Hey, I appreciate the spirit of giving here, but...you know you don't have to split everything in the field, right? Early bird catches the bullet-shaped worm, and all that.”

“You're as bad as Robert with that crap.” She sighed, letting her head drop in frustration. When she met his eyes again, her tone was softer, “Listen, have you ever heard of a lawyer taking a case pro bono?”

Deacon feigned racking his brain, making a mental note to burn the law textbook he had stashed at HQ. “ _Caaan’t_ say I've heard of it,” he said, tapping his chin. “Isn’t that a type of cheese or something?”

It took Marlene a moment to follow his mental gymnastics. “No, that's _provolone_. Pro bono is when you take a client's case for free because you believe in the cause—to me, we’re both working pro bono here. Sharing ammo and food and whatever they want to pass off as money these days is only fair for getting paid jack for…” she gestured to the raider sleepover at their feet, “ _this._ ”

Deacon pocketed the caps and ammo, casual as ever. “Pro bono, gotcha.” _She actually believes in it._ With his sunglasses on he was free to read every smile, every twitch, every glimmer of hope like a book, and Marlene’s was one word: _truth_. It was almost a little scary how honest she was, and a whoooole lot of depressing. It was a sundae of good character with an extra scoop of irony—anyone but Deacon would’ve valued that trait.

“What do we do about Nemo over there?” Marlene asked disparagingly, peeking back out at the other raider through a hole in the wall.

 _Easy peasy._ “Lesson numero tres,” he responded proudly, holding up three fingers. It was one of his favorite tactics. “Distraction.”

Talk about variety: bottles, grenades, fights, flashing lights, animals, the dramatic screams of the gravely wounded—and hey, if given enough time Deacon could make a scarecrow, too. That was always fun. Something about Marlene didn't strike him as the arts and crafts type.

Still, the tactic seemed to appeal to her and he watched the gears tunring in her mind. Was that...a twinkle in her eye? _Oh boy._ Before she even asked the answer was yes.

What could a suburban housewife have under her sleeve to distract a inebriated raider in this bombed out wasteland they both called a home? With Marlene's gall? _Anything._

“If I try something, are you ready to grab him?”

“Sure thing, new kid on the block.” Deacon grinned cheekily, making finger guns and earning the eyeroll he always wanted. Nerves always made him pep up, but the ever cautious Marlene checked on Nemo through the office glass before positioning herself behind the open door.

“Do you know what a party trick is, Deacon?” The crafty gleam in her eyes made him wish he did.

All she did was clear her throat and Marlene was able to call out in a ragged voice Deacon never imagined could come out of such a poised woman. It was _exactly_ like the raider he had already knocked out—strident and croaky, like he had just smoked 30 cigarettes in one go and was already half deaf. Nemo heard his name being called and started waltzing their way, believing it just like Deacon would have. It was amazing.

Marlene went for it, springing out from behind the door with precision and easily mimicking his grip from earlier on a raider too dumb and drunk to struggle much.

He didn't exactly enjoy being up close and personal with them, but raiders proved to be excellent test dummies for, well, _most_ of the ‘Wealth’s factions. He explained the mechanics—the boring, textbook stuff. Hand placement, pressure, the package deal. The difference between sending them to sleepy town or the river styx was really only a few moments, but it was easy enough to tell when they went slack and hit the floor in their best impression of a sack of bricks. _That's_ when you stopped.

They definitely _looked_ dead—whoever woke up first was in for a hell of a surprise, but surprise and murder are two very different things. Unless it's a surprise-murder, of course, but those rarely involve party hats unless someone has a really sick sense of humor.

With some correction of her hand placement and grip, Marlene had Nemo sleeping like a baby and Deacon felt a little stab of pride—he had gotten a few disapproving looks at HQ when he had insisted he be the one to take on the rookie and there she was, knocking out her first raider without any fuss. It was one for the books.

That didn't mean the looks weren't justified, though. Marlene was the type of woman you _had_ to look at when she walked in, holding her head high and making small talk like any good pre-war woman did when buying high caliber rifle rounds. She was well versed in just about everything _but_ subtlety.

Not to mention Des had given up assigning newbies to him after one too many was left guarding “valuable” caches of Silver Shroud comic books and preserved pies. Deacon had argued it was a valuable lesson in patience. Desdemona had argued it was him ditching them to go and read somewhere...She was right, but _they_ didn't have to know that. Besides, Marlene was different.

“You look genuinely surprised for once,” she said, raising an eyebrow. She flashed a cocky grin, and for a moment Deacon got the same soft Marlene Sanctuary did; the one who wasn't afraid to laugh with that silly handyman or lend a sympathetic ear to Garvey. The Marlene she hadn't meant for him to see.

It was gone as fast as it came, but it was good news. She was showing signs of trusting him, easing up on the mask little by little.

“Nice to know I can turn the tables every once and awhile.”

Deacon smiled wryly. From the word ‘go' he had expected a real apple pie, golly goshing housewife and the first word out of her mouth had been _“Fuck!” annnnd_ now she was giving a near perfect jet junkie impression on the fly, so there was that, too.

He had seen the way that paladin had pulled every recruitment trick in the book to try and win her over, and even the poor bastards in Sanctuary were gunning for a chance to enlist the vaultie’s help. If anything about her _wasn't_ a surprise it was that she had gotten herself tangled up in trouble from the start.

You didn't have to be a detective to figure out why—Marlene instilled some strange confidence in you with the way she held herself, like she was the ghost of everything sane and articulate in the world. Hell, if you asked about politics she sounded like a pre-war pamphlet; spewing a lot of stuff about strength and integrity and enlist and help your country today, etc etc.

No one even knew who she was yet and the Brotherhood was already pulling the “for the good of humanity!” shtick. Talk about intense. If they learned she was the one who cracked the code on how the Institute was moving around—scratch that, if they learned she was a _pre-war_ woman who cracked the code on how the Institute was moving around? Those nutjobs would probably have her tied up and interrogated about toasters.

His reasoning was as selfish as any other’s, but if he played his cards right and she stuck around, maybe by the time she had to buy into some bullshit it wouldn’t be because she had to pick a lesser evil. And he didn't organise all those Railroad spirit weeks for nothing.

A small rumble sent a chill up his spine. It was so slight he could almost believe it was his own shudder, but that wasn't what wastelanders who _lived long_ believed. No, it was all too familiar...He opened his mouth to say something but shut it immediately. Marlene hadn't noticed. Didn't trust her instincts enough yet. It was time to make an escape plan.

He squinted through his glasses and just barely caught the sun struggling to shine through the office window. It was already touching the horizon. He was sleep deprived and paranoid and it felt off for some reason, if only he was sharp enough to catch on _why_.

It wasn't going to be all mimicry and rainbows and his game of twenty questions would have to wait. Marlene frowned, eyes scanning his face. “What's wrong?” Another shift in the ground, larger now. His mind _wasn't_ playing tricks on him. _Any longer and we’ll be overstaying our welcome._

“What was that?”

“We should go,” he said, pulling his pistol and glancing down the hallway. They made their way back to the first floor with Deacon taking point and Marlene trailing behind. He could _feel_ her burning questions as he hurried past railsign after railsign, but he couldn't be sure yet. _It’s no time to freak her out, we just need to get out of here and-_ a massive crash radiated through the building, knocking out at least one wall for sure. It was close. Wayyy too close.

A barrage of gunfire started up only a room over. His time for plan-formulating was up. All the puzzle pieces were knocked into place in one convenient click, coming together to form an ugly picture. His instincts were right. “Shit. Deathclaw.”

The words were out of his mouth before he considered them, and Marlene looked at him with an expression that begged him to be kidding. “Not funny. That last one almost ripped my arm off.” He scratched his neck, scanning for their best exit route. Going off how heavy the footfalls were, they didn't have long.

“ _Yeaaaah,_ about that— _really_ wish I was kidding here, but,” he backed into the open industrial locker behind him as the floor shook with the first roar. _“Get in.”_

He was hoping to avoid something like this—sure, in the end Marlene had filled that first ‘claw with so many holes you could slap him between two pieces of bread and call him swiss cheese, but the fear in her eyes told a different story than that of a painless victory.

Who could blame her? Nothing was more terrifying than a snarling, lumbering, ten foot tall lizard. Except maybe a bloodbug with a knife taped to it—he had many a nightmare along those lines. No time to explain that one.

With just a few stims in Marlene’s bag if a deathclaw got a hold of one of them they were lucky if they would be re-enacting humpty dumpty. Luckily the rookie wasn't in the mood to argue and only took a moment to drop her bag and squeeze in after him. The smallest sigh of relief escaped him as the door rattled shut after her, though her elbow accidentally meeting his kidney probably helped.

Gunfire and yelling was the deathclaw dinner bell, starting off the menu with _raider hors d'oeuvres._ A classic. It spilled into their room with an explosion knocking out a good chunk of drywall, rattling the metal locker so hard it made his teeth chatter.

“There goes our raider problem,” he joked, doing his best to peek out the too-short slits of the locker. Red wisps of Marlene’s hair kept tickling his face but she was unmoving, staring out at the fight that sounded like it was in front of them now—cursing, wailing, the whole morbid shebang. He stopped fidgeting, hunching down to look out beside her.

 _What a mess._ It looked like a horror movie out there. A raider’s innards went flying as the ‘claw ripped him in half, landing with a sound reminiscent of slapping a wet ham. " _Oooooh-_ kay, not funny any more.” Deacon felt like a parent who had turned on _Psycho_ for the kiddos thinking it was a Sunday morning cartoon.

Marlene couldn't look away, but her shallow breathing told him she wasn't about to start cheering for the home team. _Ahhh shit._ Somehow he had almost forgotten that in her Boston giant lizards didn't eat people. Probably because they didn't _have_ giant lizards. Funny how that worked.

Was he a nanny? _No_. Did he make it a habit to get involved in other people’s personal lives? _No._ Did he feel responsible here? _Well, yeah._ Subjecting this pre-war mom to voyeuristic, nature documentary, first-row-at-a-Shamu-show level gore was too far. Cursing himself, he slipped his hand over her eyes. “You don't wanna see this, trust me.”

Marlene shifted around to face him and for the first time since he had officially introduced himself she only managed a nod. His heart settled in the pit of his stomach.

The Commonwealth took a lot of things from you you couldn't get back. But for once—for one, single, fleeting moment—that was a truth Deacon didn't want to face. One he allowed himself to ignore in favor of letting a 30-something lawyer bury her head in his shoulder to try to drown out the screaming.

There was no witty one-liner like Deacon had imagined in his head when he watched her walk away from the Cambridge ‘claw dusting crumbs off of himself and yet there was honesty in this Marlene.

This wasn't what Marlene wanted to show to the world—hell, maybe she was right and she couldn't _afford_ to show this side of herself to the world. The only thing Deacon knew was that was the Marlene he wanted to see. She was a mother from 2077 who didn't know what a deathclaw was but would try her _damndest_ not to vomit while she watched it paint the roses red. What could he say? He always liked a good underdog.

Deacon wasn't one for emotional displays…or hugs...or handshakes...orrr well really anything that involved him and someone else touching, but he scolded himself into doing _something_. Just something small. He brought his hand down onto her shoulder and gave it a pat like a dime novel robot who just learned what friendship was. _Nice one, Deeks._

Marlene started away like he had shocked her and the deathclaw mauling cut through the awkward silence like elevator music. _Yeahhhh...never trying that again._

The light from old bullet holes punched through the locker was _just enough_ for Deacon to wish he couldn't see anything. Marlene had the type of eyes that made agents bug out just by staring into them for too long—the kind that knew you before you ever introduced yourself.

It was hard not to see your own reflection in them, and that appealed to some people. The Preston Garveys of the world saw a friend, someone that related to them and worked hard and cared like they did. But Deacon? He saw danger. He saw the eyes of a woman that bit off more than she could chew and knew more than she should.

They made his skin crawl, no matter how normal she seemed. There was nothing he hated more than a mirror.

Her tense laugh broke him away from his elaborate bug out plans. _“You're awful at that.”_ A laugh was a win. Maybe he wouldn't be packing a bag and heading for the Mojave after all.

Deacon let go of the breath he was holding, grinning freely in the dark. _Fair point._ “Thanks, Ms. Congeniality,” he quipped back, finding his voice. _Just a normal woman,_ he reminded himself, letting his eyes coast over hers once more. _Almost._

When the clatter died down, Marlene worked up the courage to look out at the mutant. Her squared shoulders refused to flinch, but Deacon could only imagine what she was seeing. _I spy something….red?_

He hunched down to see for himself and caught the tail end of things. Literally. All the big iguana did was lumber out, bored with it's rampage. Damn thing was probably half asleep. It couldn't have been ten minutes and absolutely everything was gone—desks crushed, walls scorched and shredded, viscera everywhere.

It wasn't long until the earth shaking monstrosity was trundling off into the gore-filled sunset, having paid the locker no mind.

The pair tumbled out onto bloodied concrete, sucking in deep breaths and adjusting to the bright light. Deacon was happy to get back to his usual arm’s length and Marlene wasn't about to complain. “I love what they've done with the place,” she said, resting her hands on her knees and trying to breathe in as little raider dust as possible. _The mask is back._

Deacon let out a nervous laugh so he didn't vomit, “Where have _you_ been the last two hundred years? Entrails are _so_ passé.”

He did his best to look without _looking,_ setting on the first exit he saw. Marlene followed without question and they climbed the stairs up to the roof in silence, taking in their first gloriously fresh breaths when they made it outside.

Marlene flopped to the floor, rubbing a shaky hand across her face. “Fuck.”

Deacon laughed. _Touché._ Not to name names, but a certain dashing, illustrious spy didn't exactly have the stomach to watch something like that and then stop for a burrito break.

“I wanna stay somewhere _that thing can't reach_ tonight,” Marlene added, meeting Deacon’s eyes with a new sense of earnesty. A far cry from the look of the wounded animal who had shoved a gun in all of his squishy organs like her life depended on it. Nothing like a good near death experience to get them on the same team.

He took the purified water she offered from her bag, clearing the taste of blood from his mouth while he considered it. “Here's as good a place as any, isn’t it? Four stories is... _good,”_ he said, thinking “good” was not at all the word to describe that kind of drop.

Marlene rolled the tension out of her shoulders, managing a real smile. “Sounds great to me.”

She shoved the water bottle back in her overstuffed bag, looking considerably relieved as Deacon eased himself down next to her. “Anything else gonna fit in there, Mary Poppins?” he joked, raising an eyebrow. The worn military backpack always slung over her shoulder barely zipped closed anymore.

Marlene shot him one of her best flat looks. “You wanna save us with some of your pocket lint one day?”

“You have an _encyclopedia_ in there.” Her cheeks tinted. _Soft spot, huh?_

“That's a compendium of great Greek authors.”

Deacon pushed his sunglasses up with the back of his hand, a good teasing just what he needed to wipe the blood out of the back of his mind. “What's the difference?”

“Okay smartass, am I supposed to act like I haven't noticed the Proust paperbacks you tout around like they're the gospel?”

Deacon felt his eyebrow twitch. She knew how to bite back. He put on his easiest shrug. “With this job, you have to pass the time _somehow._ One man canasta doesn't go too well.”

Marlene blew a raspberry, rolling her eyes at him. “You're full of shit.” Deacon grinned to himself.

As she untied her sleeping bag from the bottom of her backpack, he could almost make her comment for her. ‘Oh, _Marlene,_  how ever did you manage to have such a handy and versatile item with you _all the way out here?’_ Marlene answered his imaginary question with sarcasm of her own, rolling out the sleeping bag with a good shake.

“This pre-war magic is called _taking things with you—_ I think it'll catch on with the kids some day.”

Deacon took a second before playing along. He wasn't used to being razzed this much. “Hot new craze?” He asked, chewing on his tongue. He could do a little playing along.

“Oh definitely.” She nodded firmly.

Maybe the lawyer had a point. The pocket lint joke was a little close to home for his taste. Besides his pistol and caps Deacon didn't have a dust bunny on him. _Never_ did, actually.

In truth, the bag wasn’t the worst choice—small, sturdy, inconspicuous, but all Deacon could see was a treasure trove of information for anyone that got ahold of it. The most innocuous things could be what give you and everyone you love away, and information was the worst thing to lose. Nope, he’d stick to his caches around the ‘Wealth and live with some nights slept on the ground. There wouldn't be another Switchboard as long as he had any say in it. There _couldn't_ be.

Still, maybe this “partner” stuff wasn't as bad as he remembered it—he _was_ offered half the sleeping bag, after all. That wasn’t an offer he ever turned down, awkward accidental cuddling simply the cherry on top of life in the business.

It wasn't glamorous, but with the sun already sunk behind the downtown skyscrapers, it was a nice luxury to be able to make yourself into a human burrito. Living in the Commonwealth made you wish for a nuclear _summer_ if there was such a thing. Using his jacket as a pillow, Deacon was pretty damn comfortable for being four stories off the ground in blustery winds.

He let his eyes flutter closed, Marlene's minor shifting odd only because it was so unusual to feel someone laying next to him again. _At least it's not Tinker Tom,_ he thought, trying not to cringe at the memory alone.

Sometimes during a big operation HQ would get overbooked and agents would find themselves cozying up to one another in one big, grumpy sleepover. _That_ particular exercise was what clued Deacon in to the fact Tom suffered from vivid nightmares. Like, _hit whatever's closest to you_ nightmares. For a while there Deacon looked like he had taken up boxing...and he sucked at it... _really badly._

Marlene wished him goodnight and Deacon tried to shut off his brain, counting tiny mutated sheep. It worked for a good thirty seconds. “What’s so special about dusty old Greek dudes, anyway?”

That roused a breathy laugh from Marlene and he felt her shift again. Deacon cracked an eye open and sure enough she was facing him, one eyebrow raised. “You mean you read Proust in your free time and don't know about the Greeks?” He nodded. Marlene thunked onto her back again, one arm supporting her head. “Oh God, where to begin?”

She talked about Greek philosophy, the invention of democracy, the old notion that angry gods were what killed sailors at sea and scarred the earth with lightning. “If a bunch of angry Gods are what made storms, what the hell did you guys do to wipe out the world in one go?”

He gave her a teasing grin, but it faded when he noticed Marlene’s smile didn't meet her eyes.

She turned to look back at the night sky. “What the hell _didn't_ we do?” The sentiment stung—obviously a sore spot for the 2077er—but Deacon wasn't about to let the first real informative conversation they’d had die that easily. It was his job to learn as much as he could, to vet her and pry every last scrap of information from her hands. It was his job with _everyone_ **.**

“Wow, _harsh,”_ he replied, relying on his go-to to lighten the mood: humor. Marlene laughed, but not for the reason he intended. “Really?”

She seemed reflective, digging a cigarette out from her coat and resting it between her bowed lips. Just before she lit it, she paused in consideration, the flame dancing in the dark. She spoke quietly over the Grey Tortoise. “Sorry.”

_Sorry?_

She sighed, flicking the lighter closed and shoving it and the crunched cigarette in a pocket unknown to him, shrugging. “I forget sometimes not everyone’s world exploded.”

Deacon’s mind lingered on the cigarette she had almost lit, leaving him only nodding at her words. “Do you know what a constellation is?” Deacon squinted behind his sunglasses. _Intentional topic change or innocent question?_

He shrugged. “They’re those weird designs of like, huge crabs and stuff in the sky, right? I've found some maps on them, but nottt sure I could tell you what a ‘Capricorn’ is.”

The way Marlene talked about stars made him feel like they weren't just pinpricks of light in the sky for once. In the countless hours he’d spent reading in the ‘Wealth he’d skipped through poem after poem about the night sky, glancing up and finding the real thing severely lacking.

Pretty enough, sure, but they all twinkled the same and Deacon would have to be forgiven for not being _dazzled_.

But to Marlene they all had dramatic old-timey names, ages, histories. You grouped enough of them together and they were a hunter, or a crow, or a...sea monster? Okay, she lost him there, but he got the point. What _he_ wanted to know was why did a lawyer have all this information about fairytales, anyway? They try many sea gods in court?

“Wait, let me guess: Justice 101, Jury Selection, AP Greek Mythology?” Presumptive statements were always a good way to get someone to answer a question you never _actually_ asked. He had learned that trick from some tattered book he had picked up in the Fens.

Marlene scowled at him, starry-eyes forgotten. **“** You can't hot read me and then expect me to not notice when you pull the huckster crap.” Deacon chewed on his tongue, unsure of how to backtrack from that one.

She was onto the trick. _Again **.**_ And that meant they weren't friends. “If you wanna try and out-bullshit a lawyer we’re going to have a rough time of this whole “partners” business.” _Ahhh, yeah. I remember why I wasn't good at that “partners” thing. 'Cause I'm not good at the "friends" thing._

Again her eyes critically appraised him. Deacon hated the pinpricks that iced down his spine; he hated being caught.

“If you want to know something, just ask. I don't care if you write down my favorite kind of cereal in some creepy Railroad file to use against me later. I just want to find my son.”

Deacon’s mouth was dry and he knew he was in a corner. “Sounds great.” he said, grinning. Good thing his specialty was bad ideas. “Why do you know so much about stars, then? They teach that in pre-war school?”

Marlene’s lips quirked up like there was some inside joke he was about 200 years too late on. “Sorta,” she shrugged. “But I knew more about constellations than my times tables by the time I hit elementary school. My mother’s doing.”

“Was your mom one of those zodiac people? Or like Mama Murphy?” The sting of embarrassment was fading.

“You could say that. Not... _whatever Mama Murphy is,_ but she was a real new age hippie type, all about horoscopes and tarot and luck. Probably the only mother in Boston who was disappointed her kid wanted to be a lawyer.” Thinking back on it got a grin on her face. “God, that woman...naming me after a bear.”

Whatever words Deacon had expected to come out of her mouth, it had not been those words in that order. He could save his sulking for later.

“She did it for luck and my father loved her too much to argue, but after I started fourth grade they agreed it would be best for me to just be Marlene. Mom still called me Callisto whenever she could get away with it—always too stubborn for her own good. Guess that's where I get it from.”

“Callisto?” The name was foreign; nothing like the pre-war ghouls that he had seen, all Sues and Sals and Johns. He’d...remember it.

Marlene nodded, shrugging in manner that said _‘hell if I know’._ “If you don’t know what you're looking for they can be hard to see but it starts with that bright star there,” she pointed up and Deacon was a strong 85 percent sure they were looking at the same flickering light. “Follow that one up to Dubhe.” Okay, 80 percent sure.

She sketched out a shape he...sort of followed, and explained what it was. “Ursa Major, the greater bear. My constellation. And before you ask, no, I don't know why it has a tail. But there's an old myth that says a nymph of Artemis caught Zeus' eye and he—as the king of the gods was wont to do—had his way with her. Hera, his wife, found out and—as the queen of the gods was wont to do—turned the beautiful Callisto into a bear.”

So, not only was she named after a bear but it was really a nymph that was turned into a bear? This was starting to sound like one of the stories he told.

“Why a _bear?”_

She shrugged. “Presumably so her hound dog husband wouldn't find her attractive anymore. Maybe she just found being a bear suitable enough punishment.”

A beat passed. “Sounds pretty un _bear_ able to me.” Marlene laughed, taken by the sheer punny genius. He couldn't blame her.

In the peaceful lull that followed, Deacon attempted to find the bear in the stars again. It would help if he knew what a bear looked like. But all the best stories had a good ending, and it was nagging at him already. “Then what happened?”

Marlene’s eyes flicked away from his and she sighed. It sounded like she had been holding it since she was shoved into that icebox. “Nothing nice, I'll tell you that.”

Deacon raised an eyebrow, mulling it over. Pushing her on it wasn't likely to get him anywhere yet. It sounded like he’d have to hit the books—find out what the fabled Callisto meant to the real one. He was betting she took the whole thing more to heart than she liked to admit. And maybe he could even figure out what the hell a bear was in the process.

“You know, my first night out of the vault I was amazed at how bright the stars were. You haven't ever thought about it, have you?”

Deacon glanced up again. “That's a luxury we wastelanders take for granted, huh?”

Marlene was quiet. “Yeah,” she said after a moment. He knew she was looking at them, too. A million glittering lights he never bothered to roll over to see.

“In all my years in Boston they were drowned out by the glare of the city. When I stepped out of the vault and saw them...I knew.”

A memory flashed in Deacon’s mind—the shudder of the rusting platform roaring to life, startling him out of a doze and scattering all the birds. Revealing the woman he’d been hoping to find. The moon illuminated the _111_ on her back, making her as alien to this world as it was to her. She stared up at the sky like she wasn't ready to see what had become of peaceful little Sanctuary Hills. And Deacon understood.

"You knew the world was over.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I use too many em dashes? Yes. Am I sorry? Almost.
> 
> Thanks for reading and sorry for the crazy long wait. Between a cross country move, family health problems, and a literal wildfire life was a little crazy for a while there haha. And then this has just been languishing in my drafts forever and I've picked it apart and put it back together thirty different ways, but hopefully you enjoy it! :)
> 
> Kudos are always super appreciated and comments make my day. Thanks again! <3


	4. Shepherds and Silence

 

“Enthused” was hardly the word Marlene would use to describe how she felt seeing Dogmeat again. In the crumbling walls of the Railroad’s headquarters his bark was so loud Tinker Tom almost hit the ceiling and the bitter glares of agents trying to sleep managed to stab from twenty feet away.

“Enthused”, however, was _exactly_ the word she would use to describe Deacon. She didn't even have a second to brace herself before Dogmeat left his makeshift bed beside Drummer Boy’s desk and came bounding at them like a toothy missile. Deacon caught him before he reached her, but she could feel the slobber from where she stood. “Ohhhhh, puppy kisses! That's a good boy!”

For being so shrewd her new partner was embarrassingly oblivious to his new pet's many, many, _many_ shortcomings. Marlene wasn't sure if Dogmeat could breathe on command, much less fetch. Instead he took another opportunity to smoosh Dogmeat’s sleek face into a silly smile like Nate used to do to Shaun to make him giggle and petting so vigorously that a small... _dog bunny_ manifested out of Dogmeat’s hair. Marlene shuddered.

It floated along like a wild west tumbleweed, _riiight_ into the trash can Drummer Boy wordlessly kicked over with perfect timing. He had been stuck with the dog for too long. “Deacon, Rookie, it's good to see you. Des wants to talk.” Drummer gestured a gloved hand behind him. “And this guy’s missed you,” he grinned, looking from Dogmeat to Marlene cheekily.

She shook her head, hearing the chewing out Deacon was going to get this time over putting ridiculous ‘secret admirer’ notes on desks again—signed as someone else, of course. Usually Carrington.

“If you ever give me good news I’ll roll over in my grave."

Drummer Boy shrugged, carefree. “Don't be so sure it's bad, Rookie!” Out of all the agents in HQ, the lanky Communications Officer had quickly established himself as the friendliest _and_ the most behind on work, but any correlation between those two seemingly went over his head. Not that Marlene was complaining; it was a welcome change of pace to talk to someone...normal for once. Spending ninety percent of her time staring at her own reflection in sunglasses was starting to do something to her head. Not that Switchboard had helped that any, either.

Deliverer was leaden in her holster and it had taken three days of Deacon’s tomfoolery to get the images out of her head. It was a slaughter, plain and simple. No mercy, no emotion, just those fucking walking skeletons tearing agents to shreds. They stepped over them carefully, covering their faces to try and hide the eye-watering stench of decay, every distinguishable face staring back in warning. The Switchboard was a graveyard.

Deacon had caught her glancing sidelong at him more times than she was going to admit, but besides the grim lines on his face when he looked down at Tommy Whispers, he didn't make any of his feelings known about the agents scattered like flies at their feet. Even from him, Marlene expected something _._ Some story or lie or _anything_. His silence was deafening. But now, a week later? Marlene could picture his reply: one eyebrow cocked and that practiced, knowing, _nothing_ on his face. “Tommy _who_?”

In contrast to her agent sauntering in with a fleabag in tow, the stress lines wore deep on Desdemona’s face. The rookie let Deacon take point, biting her tongue. Marlene remembered that look. That “I've been up for longer than you want to know and every second of it has been spent looking at paperwork” look.

Every attorney—every _good_ attorney—hit that sweet slice of hell right before trial, but the Railroad’s leader semed stuck that way. It probably accounted for the fact she smoked so many Grey Tortoises she could’ve single-handedly kept them in business just a few hundred years ago. The cloud of smoke that surrounded her implied nothing had changed since she and Deacon had set off for the Switchboard a week ago. Surprise, surprise.

“ _Heyyy,_ Des. Heard through the grapevine you’ve got something for us?” Deacon drawled, stretching an arm behind his head.

Desdemona’s eyes only met Deacon's long enough to assess he was still in one piece before her hawkish eyes were on the only agent wet behind the ears. “For _Rookie_ , yes.” she said pointedly, unabashedly flicking ash into her tray and blowing another cloud of smoke.  _That_ was surprising. Marlene instinctively looked to Deacon’s dark frames, though he could've had his damn eyes closed for all she knew. Still, it was nice to imagine she could make some good ol’ fashioned eye contact with him now and then.

“Sweet. Got it. Don't mind me, I'll just be over here using this amazing free time to work on my cross stitch.” He took a few steps back with innocently raised hands, plopping into a rolling chair nearby and acting like there was a chance in hell he wasn't going to listen to every word they said.

_Yeah, and I'll practice my knitting, smartass._

“Your mission was successful?” Marlene nodded, stepping forward and carefully unholstering Deliverer.

The older woman took it carefully, scrutinizing every mark on it like she’d be taking it to the grave with her. The suppressed pistol wore it's scars, still coated in layers of blood and filth from it's last deployment. From _Tommy’s_ last deployment.

Desdemona offered it back, shaking her head and taking a mournful drag of her cigarette. “Out of all our agents, I never expected it to be Whispers.”

It was uncomfortable seeing a woman so put together—the person who held the whole railroad on her shoulders—shaken like that.

The itch at the back of her throat sent Marlene into another coughing fit she muffled into the crook of her elbow. Desdemona didn't bat an eye, evidently used to agents hacking up a lung. One could only wonder why. “Take it as a lesson for your newly assigned status, then, _agent_. Something can always go wrong. It always does. Have your partner’s back when it happens.”

_Wait, what?_

That was the most subtle promotion she had ever received. There was no committee review, no secret test, no talk of goals or whether or not she saw herself hacking on cigarette smoke underneath one of Boston’s most historical landmarks in 15 years. Was she serious?

Deacon took his opportunity to catapult himself backwards and squealed to a stop between them in his rickety office chair. There was a suspicious lack of cross-stitching going on.

He squeaked back and forth excitedly, “I get to keep her, mom, _really?”_

“Long as she doesn't ask for a transfer.”

 

**________________________**

 

“What’re we calling you, Rookie?” Drummer Boy looked up from his stack of illegible notes intently—scraps and letters, _messages,_  presumably—and added on a smile as an afterthought.

“Mockingbird,” she replied, watching his face for any signs of recognition. His eyebrows furrowed and he thought for a moment, examining her own face just as intently. Then, as quick as it was there, he leaned back and let out a satisfied ‘hmph'.

_“Hmph”?_

_“_ Good. Ya look like a Mockingbird. I’m the one who juggles all the reports around here, and I hate it when the face doesn't match the name, but I can see it.” His eyes traced over her one more time like he was committing it to memory, and his easygoing grin betrayed the mountain of paperwork on the table beside him.

“Mockingbird. Now _that's_ a name I can remember. Well, now that it's _official,_ here's the spiel. Again, the name’s Drummer Boy, in case Deeks said somethin’ otherwise,” he grinned, sticking his hand out to shake.

“Don't give him the idea,” Marlene replied, sharing the smile.

“And I’m always down here in the tombs, somewhere or other. Couldn't tell you exactly how long I've been here—pretty sure I haven't seen daylight since January, but someone’s gotta make sure everyone gets where they need to be, right?”

Using the table for support, Drummer Boy got to his feet and walked over to a large chalkboard on the back wall. He favored his right leg, a blatant slant to his cadence betraying an old injury. Marlene averted her eyes, seeing Nate's frustrated tears after he’d fallen at the charity dinner. Instead, Drummer Boy whistled as he used a chair to support himself and carve her new name onto the board in big, swooping letters, and nothing about him spoke of insecurity.

She smiled back when Drummer Boy tipped his hat as a toast, a small little phrase nagging at the back of her mind. What Nate always said when asked about his time in the army—or his great-great-grandfather’s, or his great-great-great-great-grandfather’s— _war never changes._

Some men laughed when they heard it, clapped him on the shoulder for such pithiness. It was always the ones who hadn’t ever spent a day out of their civvies or spent far too long in the cogs of the machine.

The ones who didn't have to watch him wake up in the middle of the night with death in his eyes or see the neighborhood children gawk at him like he wasn't the same man who left; the same man who played games with them and never let a cat get too far up a tree without him being the neighborhood hero.

It was his great great grandfather's inability to smile, the month Nate spent in the hospital when he should have been back at home, the forever tilt in Drummer’s step. It always scarred.

Marlene tried to ignore the list as long as her arm on the blackboard, most of the names crossed off. And now? ‘MOCKINGBIRD', sitting chipperly at the bottom. She had just enlisted.

 

**__________________________**

 

It was Deacon who had suggested the codename _Mockingbird_ and by the time it was on the board in Drummer Boy’s steady hand, he had one foot out the door. He left her with a chinese finger trap and a boy scout salute.

 _Typical,_ she grumbled in her head.

It wasn't until she had helped all she could around HQ and was sent to her damp corner of sleeping space that she realized it _wasn't typical at all._ Deacon’s sunnies had hardly left her at all during her ‘internship', as they (“they” being their “super-secret cool two-man team”, which Deacon kept trying to make a handshake for) called it.

There was no rustling beside her, no page turning or occasional comment cutting through the silence. Just the heavy breathing of the mutt that inched closer every time he thought she wasn't looking and her usual bouts of coughing. Even the clacking of typewriters and muffled chatter of code felt quiet.

_What could he be doing?_

Marlene almost laughed at the image that came to her mind. _What a stupid question to ask—the question is what_ isn't _he doing?_ Reading under a tree somewhere, tailing the local elementary schoolers to monitor for Institute activity in the lunch line, throwing rocks at the windows of informants like he was in a cheesy romance flick and quoting Romeo and Juliet, knowing they would take him for crazy. Just for kicks.

 _“I'm getting my yearly palm reading from Mama Murphy—don't wait up.”_ He had ‘gifted’ her with the finger trap and went on his way, giving her that shit-eating smile he always did when she rolled her eyes. _“Have some fun for me while I'm gone, ‘kay?”_

It wasn't long before his distinctly indistinct silhouette was gone. Back to being invisible, surely, out in some crowd somewhere. What Deacon did best. Marlene pulled the mothball blanket up higher, shifting and resigning herself into some form of sleep.

Whatever he was doing out there, her new ‘partner' knew what he was doing...even if no one else did. Hopefully.

When Marlene found herself tugged back into consciousness her world was brown and black and smelled awfully like grave dust. Dogmeat was sorrowful, puffing more hot dog breath onto her face with another sigh.

Gagging, Marlene sat up. That was no puppy breath. Dogmeat was in rough shape when they found him at that gas station, but he had since become three shades darker. He was disgusting, quite frankly.

With the most pitiful eyes in the world he scooted closer—one step away from batting his eyelashes like a college girl trying to get out of a P.I. charge—and _sneezed._   _God damn it._ Taking a deep breath, Marlene reached out. If anything was unifying in H.Q. it was sneezing. They all did it. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”

Dogmeat’s tail started it's slow drag across the floor, hesitant but excited already. Running a hand along his face provided exactly what she expected: a hand full of cobwebs and grime for her trouble. Wasteland dog or not, he couldn't run around like that. It couldn't be good for his health.

Nate would never leave her mind if she kept the Shepherd around, but ignoring him just let Nate's voice creep back stronger, _“Now I know what we said about dogs, but!”_

That stupid silly grin he had on when he came back an hour late in a downpour with a filthy dog in his arms was something she’d never forget. Dogmeat settled himself in beside her, happily sniffling through his cobwebs. Marlene didn't stop him. Couldn't.

She was back in the house, listening to rain washing the world away outside and watching Nate fall in love from the kitchen table. A German Shepherd curled in his lap still half wrapped in a towel and her wonderful, brave, heart-on-his-damn-sleeve husband falling asleep in his ruined tie with a hand lazily rubbing behind the dog’s ears.

The memory made her short of breath, but when she felt for her heart the cold metal of her ring caught her by surprise. _Fuck._ Once she had it she couldn't let go, and the diamond biting into her hand only felt fitting.

It was too quiet, too still when she had nothing to do. She crumpled. Twisted in on herself like she felt real physical pain.

 _“Fucking softie.”_ Whether she was talking to Nate or herself, she didn't know anymore.

That phone call to the owners played in her mind, that awful smile she could hear on the other end when they learned some kind, idiot stranger had run across the Mass Turnpike to help their Rin Tin Tin. He had rescued a very expensive and very missed show dog, and that was the night Marlene had decided he would finally be getting his wish. A beautiful pure German Shepherd puppy, courtesy of his ‘stray' under the tree for Christmas.

Christmas never came.

The tears were quiet like they always had been, racking her shoulders and burning her throat but muffled into fur. Only for Dogmeat and her to hear. Deacon always spoke before they went to sleep, ranging from books to morals to HQ gossip. Finally she understood why.

Because Marlene had forgotten what silence felt like. How silence hurt. Deacon never had.


End file.
